


say you'll never let me go

by ingeniousmacabre



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: "new girl" meets "suits" meets the shittiest story you know, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Author Has Many Regrets In Life, Author Is Going Through Quarter Life Crises, Connect ALL the Solos!, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gaby has a backstory, Illya is a Big Baby ™, Nappy Solo is a Hunky Piece of Shit ™, Reylo - Freeform, Solo Legacy of Thievery and Familial Disappointment, author requests for your forgiveness in advance, gallya, this is as close to romcom as it can get, this is the Gallya college roommates au nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5840134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingeniousmacabre/pseuds/ingeniousmacabre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Surely, there was something wrong.</p><p>Illya looks down, scans his dorm papers and brochure for the nth time, looks back at the open door of his assigned dorm room. The room that will be his for the duration of the year as a graduate exchange student in the US. The room that he assumed he’d be sharing with one “Gaby Teller”, whom he similarly assumed—and reasonably, he might add—to be a functioning male adult.]</p><p>aka the gallya college roommates that i needed to write for my sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Origins

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is. Ah, look at this shitty piece.
> 
> If you know me at all as an author, 1) Im a slowburn trashshipper, 2) i dont update unless held hostage, and 3) I like prompts. also 3.5) i do not do an ounce of research so lets all just suspend our disbelief and pretend that this is plausible, yes? So yes.
> 
> :)
> 
> ps I am so gallya trash its not even funny anymore

Surely, there was something wrong.  

Illya looks down, scans his dorm papers and brochure for the nth time, looks back at the open door of his assigned dorm room. The room that will be his for the duration of the year as a graduate exchange student in the US. The room that he assumed he’d be sharing with one “Gaby Teller”, whom he similarly assumed—and _reasonably_ , he might add—to be a functioning male adult.

(The United Nations' College for Licensed Engineers is quite the _“Thing"_ now. He never really got the appeal. Needless to say, his being here is not his preference.)

Instead, had been greeted with a small, slightly rumpled-looking… human being? At first glance. He supposed there was a person somewhere inside the oversized hoodie and blue pajama, shuffling to organize their stuff on their desk. It was difficult to believe, however, that a little boy who looked to be twelve years old would be majoring in mechanical engineering.

And then the little boy spoke. 

“I’m—I am sorry. Come again?” Illya asks, because that is not a voice that should belong to anyone of the male variety.

“I said, can I help you?"

Because apparently, this person is not twelve, and most certainly not male. The person unhoods _herself_ , all big brown eyes, delicate bangs, and a gaze that makes him feel… _inadequate,_ somehow. 

He can’t bring himself to look away. 

“Yes, um… you are ‘Gaby’?"

The girl crosses her arms, shifts slightly under his gaze.

“Who’s asking?” she replies, voice on the low end of the definitely _feminine_ spectrum, Saxony-German accent cutting completely _irrational_ shivers up his spine.

“I am.” He stands up a little straighter. 

She replies flatly, “You don’t say."

“Say what?” America is confusing.

Just then, another man claps him on the back. Illya is startled, turns to see another man come up right next to him. Not quite as tall, but certainly what they would call an ‘American heartthrob’ if there ever was one. Illya is immediately wary.

“And you must be Illya,” the man says by way of introduction, extends his hand. “Napoleon Solo, but please, just Solo for short. Welcome to the land of the free. I see you’ve met Gaby here."

The woman in question tilts her head to acknowledge, smiles the most unpleased smile he has ever seen in his life. 

“I’ll be your RA for the time being, so if there’s anything I can help you with…"

“Actually, there is.” Illya opens his mouth, was going to point at Gaby, and was about to raise the question of _Why is she female?_ when Solo beats him to it.

“Ah, as for the matter of _that…"_

Just as Illya had suspected, with practiced smoothness, Solo effectively takes his brochure / room assignment document, procures a pen  _right out of nowhere,_ and starts... annotating it.

“What are you doing?"

“Making sure you’re settled in and won’t be encountering any problems,” Solo replies, pen cap in mouth. He returns the document to Illya, caps his pen and in effect any further inquiries from the Russian. “This document contains the new student room arrangements, if anyone asks. You’ll be rooming in with Gaby over here, who, by the way, is also a foreign exchange student like yourself. You’re welcome." 

“I do not understand—“

“Join the club,” he hears Gaby remark.  

Illya stares down at the document, still confused but… assured, somehow, that Solo is not the type of man who would give him an ineffective solution.

He thinks. Perhaps. Hopefully?

“If any of you need me, I’m right down the hall. Of course, I won’t be tonight… or most of the coming nights, for that matter. Just to let you know. So I’m hoping you two won’t be needing me any time soon. Play nice, now,” he says, but the last phrase he pointedly directs to Gaby, who rolls her eyes.

"I’ll see you kids around.” And just like that, with a dazzling smile and the smoothness to match, Solo exits the same way he had gone.

It all happened so fast, Illya's English is still catching up.

It’s only after around three seconds that Illya realizes his current predicament has not yet been addressed. “I have question,” he says, now turning to Gaby. Who still looks displeased at his general existence.

“What is your question."

“...Why are you female?"

 

**.:.**

 

Of course, it was just his luck that his current dorm predicament was, as of the moment, _unsolvable._

He’d hunted down Solo that first week, trying to find a way out of rooming with the tiny female. But alas, it was to no avail. Solo was out AWOL, and last he checked with the university authorities, there were no mistakes in the rooming assignments. He had resigned to accept that either they had thought “Illya” was a woman’s name, or that “Gaby” was a man’s.

And he’s not really into doing charades with the university personnel _every goddamn_ _time_ he tries to explain his predicament.

And so, he grits his teeth, settles for tiptoeing around the small, perpetually glaring little person with whom he shares a room.

Save for the tense talking-downs that he's gotten from the scary little brunette the first few days (“You stay on your side, I’ll stay on mine. Any funny business, and I _will_ fight you.”), they’ve settled into a semblance of routine during the first week. Illya goes to his classes, Gaby goes to hers. Neither one of them speak to the other, both magnetised to their respective halves of the room. He leaves when he knows she needs to get ready for class, and he prefers to accomplish his personal daily routines in the communal showers anyway. They are never seen together, never enter the room together, and never leave together.

_Like living with ghost_. The thought has crossed Illya’s mind more than a few times this first week. But it seems that this is what the lady prefers, so if he notices things, he keeps them to himself. 

(Things like she is quite intelligent if the textbooks and notebooks were any indication. Not to mention _grumpy in the mornings, secretly silly, Beatles-loving old soul tinkers with electronics in her spare time and dances by herself._..)

“Why are you so determined to get rid of me anyway,” Gaby asks him one Friday evening, interrupting his definitely unproductive string of thoughts.

This second Friday, he has nothing but two papers that he had already finished, so he’s taken to his small, portable chessboard. Gaby had come in around an hour ago, from her nuclear theories class, if he remembers correctly.

(She has her whole class schedule on a whiteboard by her desk; this knowledge is most certainly, 100% purely accidental on his part.)

She had settled down on her bed to read, their usual quiet evenings, so the question startles him. Her eyes don’t flit away from Tolstoy, casual as casual can be. Illya does not flinch either. Two can play at this game.

“This not how we do it in Russia,” he replies, equally coolly. _Pawn to F6._

“What do you mean,” she says in her signature _flat_ manner. Still not looking up from her book.

Illya sighs, not from exasperation but more because he’s not had a lot of practice interacting with his beautiful German roommate, and it’s more than a little… distressing. Considering the topic at hand.

“I mean,” he starts pointedly, moving his knight away as a countermeasure, “men don’t normally stay with women in same room together. It is…” Illya can feel his throat bob, because, well.

“It is?” she prods.

“… _improper,”_ Illya finally manages, not without discomfort on his part. Surely, they have some semblance of propriety here in America? Or is it really just him? Do they really room small, frightening women with foreign men? Is this, as they say, a _Thing_ here?

(Side note: being sociable is not exactly his forte.)

But Gaby simply scoffs, a small sharp breath shifting the wisps of hair that have fallen into her eyes. From the corner of his vision Illya can see her amused smile.

“Hmm… You can say that again,” she replies, mildly this time. More to herself than to him.

He’s a bit more relieved after that night, to know that the discomfort is not _entirely_ just on his end. But during the next few days, he gets to thinking. Surely, this must be worse for her than it is for him? Certainly, she is a strong, capable woman who can take care of herself; that’s definitely not the last thing he’s noticed about her. He’d sooner ply off his own fingernails than disrespect her. Or any woman, for that matter.

But in any case, the very next Monday, he makes it a point to visit the Dean during his break, to straighten things out. 

He had been very determined, upon walking into Dean Waverly’s office, that he was not leaving without a new room arrangement for Gaby. He didn’t mind rooming somewhere else, if it meant the lady would be more comfortable. Already, he had carefully mapped out his entire explanation in his head, bits of it even properly translated into effective English monologue, when...

“Ah, there he is. Illya, my good chap. Just the man we need. Do come in."

He hears Waverly’s voice from inside his office, door ajar. He steps inside, and lo and behold, Solo is already holding an audience. 

Right beside Gaby, who pointedly stares at him as he walks in, a stretched smile in place.

_Something is not right._

“Hello, darling,” she greets him, and something feels _off_ , he can practically smell it.

“Right, so. You do understand that matters like these are normally more… _official,_ in nature,” Waverly starts, perusing the documents in his hands and addressing all three of them. Illya feels a little more than left out of the loop, but suddenly Gaby’s hand is _on his wrist_ , and his fishy-sensors are _ringing._  

“Normally, dorm violations of this nature are counted per offence. That is, according to the number of evenings the two of you have been, well. I’m sure you are both quite aware of the house rules, and that co-ed sharing of rooms is strictly prohibited and is considered a major offense. Five major offenses are our cap, and so far, it has been a week, is that right?"

“I am… not… following...” Illya can barely register what is happening. 

“Right, well, luckily for you,” Waverly addresses Illya this time, a friendly non-hostile tone in place, “Solo here has already explained your predicament, which means I’ll be waiving the, eh, university mandated policies for breaking dorm regulations."

“Breaking... regulations?” It comes out more like a question, because the only thing that Illya has had the recent pleasure to break is his record for number of days going without a rage incident. And even _that_ doesn’t look to be going on indefinitely.

“Yes, well. Considering that you are Ms. Teller are married—"

“Engaged,” Gaby pipes up, the same time Solo interjects with “ _Technically_ married.” The words all jumble together in Illya’s ears.

“—then there should be no cause to forfeit yours and Ms. Teller—forgive me, _Mrs. Kuryakin’s—_ scholarships."

All at once it sinks in, and the confused brows unknit on Illya’s face, the gravity of the situation stretching his expression into somber realisation. Distantly, he register’s Gaby’s hand on his wrist tightening, a warning. He glances over to her, and she is smiling up at him but she is also saying _Please go along with it. Just go along with it..._

“ _Yes…”_ he manages through gritted teeth and a very, very stiff smile. “Of course. She is my… wife."

Gaby’s hand loosens just a touch, Illya’s fingers tapping a rhythm on the armrest.

 

 


	2. Luminescent

 It was with a peculiar kind of caution that Gabriella Teller slowly (though, really, much faster than she had expected) came to accept her college fate.

The fate of being married to a 6’4 blond mass of Russian supremacy.

She’s not even sure if she’s married or engaged or whatnot, it’s all a rather hazy, unwanted blur that she doesn’t like to dwell on.

Especially since it very nearly cost her a scholarship that she will commit high treason to keep.

But such is life.

However, perhaps the most frustrating thing isn’t so much that she’s forced to play house with a stranger, but how she’s forced to play house with a stranger  _who is rather stunningly handsome and brooding with a deep Russian accent and more than a little obsessed with chess and are those shoulders even real?_

There are times when Gaby wonders how the hell she even got here. 

Like now, for instance.

“Going out?” she says, trying very hard for nonchalance as she keeps her eyes firmly planted on the open book she keeps five inches from her face, sitting on her bed on a Friday evening as she is warrant to do, while her roommate/fake husband busies himself with looking… well, looking good.

Really good.

“Yes. I have party. Chess club mixer. Boring stuff,” he replies as he fixes his suit and tie in front of his cabinet mirror. He has to duck to even see his face in the reflection. 

Gaby uses this moment to chance a proper glance at him, the way he fills up his semi-casual black suit over a dark navy, his tie a stark-but-not-too-stark contrast of a more silky black... 

“Alright. Have fun,” she replies, immediately burying her nose back in her book. Still aiming for nonchalance. Still too unsure if she’s hitting it.

They’ve settled in more or less, inching a bit closer to  _acquaintances_ as the days went by, although not quite, since any interaction they’ve had thus far was born purely out of necessity.

And by _necessity,_ it’s really more of the _let’s-at-least-know-each-other-a-bit-better-so-we-have-even-the-slightest-chance-of-pulling-off-this-stupid-situation._ Granted, neither one of them have suggested alternatives yet (like along the lines of suing Napoleon Solo, that bastard) but it all happened so fast and they both have classes and it’s convenient anyway. So she had swallowed the fear away, keeping vigilant every night, leaving her lamp open and always wary when he is around. After a few days, though, things got tiring. All he ever does is work and grumpily put her stuff away when he’d find her slumped by the foot of her bed, unconscious, covered in notebooks and papers and pens and highlighters.

And in the week that they’ve been officially “married”, two things have come to surface:

1) Illya Kuryakin can be pretty intense, especially when watching live chess matches.

2) He’s also no more harmful than their biweekly dorm building cleaner.  

So she finds it less and less a frightening thing. With all that quiet intensity, that simmering rawness that makes her wonder what he’s truly capable of, and even despite his towering size and strength... something akin to respect (or at least mutual non-distrust) has bloomed between them. Simple “hi”s and “hello”s and “good morning”s are now the order of the day.

It’s a little before twelve midnight when Gaby hears their door creak open again. She hasn’t slept yet, just keeps herself buried beneath her covers in the shadows cast by her open desk lamp.

She can just see him, the huge silhouette of him. The motions of a man whose deliberate, calculated movements could pass for a kind of grace. In passing, she thinks there’s something like organized chaos in the way he controls himself, especially in the small space they share.

He fixes up, clearly too slow and tired. He just removes his shoes, his jacket, hangs it properly behind his desk chair and then, pauses. He turns towards her side, her desk. Considers her lamp for just a moment, smiles to himself.

Gaby is curious, but the smile is not a bad look on him.

He turns her lamp off. (So _that’s_ why she always finds darkness when she wakes up at odd hours of the night, unable to get back to sleep...)

“How did the party go?"

If Illya is taken aback, he shows much less than she herself feels, the sleepy words softly scratching their way out before her brain could hold them back. 

“It was good,” he says, and she notes the amiable tone his voice has suddenly taken. Maybe the darkness does good to both of them. “But there was something missing.” 

“Hmm? What?”

“You,” is almost whispered, as though tossed gently towards her sleeping form. In two strides, he is by her bed.

“What do you mean,” is her reply, somewhere off the tangents of consciousness.

“I will tell you tomorrow,” he quietly says. She snuggles in, vaguely aware that he’s pulled the covers over her more fully.

“Good night” is the last thing she hears… until.

“Wait.” Her hand reaches for his in the dark, small fingers finding his palm like magnets. “Could you leave the lamp on, please?"

His hand turns her fingers, and she can’t see him smile, but the warmth of his fingertips around hers is proof enough.

“Of course. Good night."

“Mhhmmff,” is muffled in her pillow, before she fully succumbs to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send me word prompts for this fic! 
> 
> savingpirates.tumblr.com
> 
> also as just comments, that would be cool too. :)


	3. Underhanded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i wrote this a while back and im back to writing bec i have a lot of emotions ok.
> 
> ps. please leave a comment otherwise i'll consider this fic series closed but i mean depends on if there's much demand for these two bumbleheads :)
> 
> thanks luv u guys <3

After that encounter when he had _accidentally_ (he keeps repeating this to himself) let his guard down, _mistakenly_ (again, another word he has mantra-fied) almost telling Gaby how his "chess club" friends have been asking about his marital status, Illya has made up his mind:

_I do not care about Gaby Teller._

(Sarcastic as it may be, Illya has always been quite great at self deception.)

Easier said than done, of course. Seeing as that admitting this has placed the thought of her entire existence at the forefront of his consciousness. All. the. damn. time.

It’s getting to be quite a problem, actually.

Because he notices her now.

(Stuff like how she’s always alone walking down the hallways, her head held high. How bright pastels and dresses look great on her. The little faces she makes when she’s engrossed in her reading, the way her nail polish is always chipped from her experimenting with screwdrivers. How she's never without a screwdriver. How she's never without tools in general, and speaking of tools...

_Who is that man and why is Gaby speaking with him?_

Of course, the real thought behind this thought is more along the lines of THAT IS QUESTIONABLE MAN I DO NOT TRUST HIM GABY SHOULD NOT TRUST HIM, in mental all-caps, no less.

It is just a few minutes before lunch time, when the classes are dismissed and most students can be found on their way to whichever eating place tickled their fancy. Today, Illya fancies the mess hall/student cafeteria.

(It is important to note that Illya has fancied the mess hall very consistently, ever since he discovered that if he timed it right, he could causally "bump" into a very harried, fast-walking Gaby on the way to her next class.)

Today, however, he does not so much bump into her as he stops, dead in his tracks, from around fifteen feet away, as she speaks with a tall, mustachioed, suited man. The looks of whom, Illya does not like. Not one bit.

...

Gaby has a lot in her hands. Her trusty army Swiss knives contraption, a screwdriver, screws, a nail file... She is not one who's fingers are ever empty. But if there's one thing Gaby likes to have on her hands, it’s her time.

Just... not for this fool.

“I have class,” she initially says, not bothering to look at the man, or even spare him a few seconds. It’s quite generous, how she kept from a more sassy show of disinterest, given his unwelcome hand on her elbow. She brushes him off and keeps walking.

“Ah yes, señora, but please, give me one minute…” the man persists. She finally stops, not without a roll of eyes. He continues: “Ah, there she is. We are classmates—"

“Yes, I am aware,” she replies, a subconscious crossing of arms automatic.

The man grins, clearly undeterred: “Ah, so you have noticed me!” She wholly regrets giving him an opening. _Ugh, men_. He proceeds, and Gaby fights the urge to narrow her eyes at his obviously flirtatious attempt packaged in a plea for her “class notes”.

“…I have noticed how studious—"

_“Hello, my dear."_

There’s a shiver on her before she collects her wits. She registers warmth where he steps in gently behind her, close enough to intrude on her personal space, not close enough for her to be bothered by it. She’s quite impressed, really.

She doesn’t anticipate, though, the hands that land on her shoulders, the peck on the cheek. She’d be surprised, if not pleasantly. She picks up on his cues, though.

“Hello darling,” she smiles, adopting a more open stance as she affectionately pats his hand on her shoulder.

“And who is this?” Illya asks, and Gaby does not miss the lower baritone, the heavy weight of _who, indeed, is this male man that might challenge my male manliness?_ She would groan, if she didn’t find it all rather amusing. She finds herself chuckling instead. She can play the part.

“Oh, this is Alexander. We have Pre-Modern Architecture History together. Alexander, this is my husband, Illya."

(She is _definitely_ imagining his light squeeze at her shoulders, the little tug towards him.)

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Illya says, emphasis on please and acquaintance, with a tone that does not match the content of his sentence. He reaches out for a handshake. Gaby bites her lip at the undeniable wince Alexander makes when he takes his hand.

……………..

“I do not like him."

Gaby blinks, steps out of her reverie straight out of Orwell. This peculiar sentence from Illya comes, really, at the oddest time of day. Night actually, and following a three-hour silence no less: him taken to his chess pieces, her to her reading.

“Hmm?"

The furrow in his brow tells her to browse the events of the day. She startles when she realizes, finds herself halfway between a scoff and a chuckle.

“Are you—are you referring to Alexander?” she asks. The disbelief in her voice is completely genuine. Which merits nothing more than a slightly irritated glance. Which, okay, she really shouldn’t be so amused by this.

“Illya?” she prods, when he doesn’t reply. He still doesn’t. In fact, he pointedly ignores her. So she slouches, slouches, and slouches lowly enough from where she is perched on her bed, so she can poke a socked foot at his knee.

(If she’s being deliberately annoying, she doesn’t care.)

He glances at her again. Still irritated. It registers to her that he might be irritated by her delight. She schools her expression to be be slightly more sympathetic. It comes off as teasing.

“What do you mean you don’t like him? Tell me."

“Nothing."

“Illya, don’t be a baby."

“I am _not_ a baby.“ He spits out the sentence like he were insulted but also hurt and trying really hard not to show it. He really isn’t very good at being subtle, Gaby notices. She can read his barely-concealed annoyance, that tick on his jaw, the way his fingers clench around the black king chess piece. That, and the effort to look like he doesn’t really care. It’s quite endearing.

“I hear rumours. Chess club members, they talk."

“And?"

“And he is no good. He has… reputation."

All in all, Gaby decides that she quite likes this. This… brooding sentimentality wrapped up in his terrible attempts to seem disinterested. And if she’s having fun poking at his sudden sourly mood, well. Gaby was never a damsel in distress, but who could blame her for feeling a little giddy that she can have this effect?

(Never mind that the reasons she could read him so easily is that she has been observing him quite frequently anyways. Now, that fact isn’t one she likes to dwell on.)

At his last statement, Gaby makes a show of closing her book, standing up, and sitting right across him and his chess board. He looks even more annoyed now, but Gaby just gives him a coy smile.

“So, how do you play this stupid thing, anyway?"


	4. Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha. ha ha.
> 
> can someone please explain to me what im doing with my life...

Gaby _loves_ dancing.

She absolutely, all-emcompassingly enjoys it: the shivers where the bass hits her skin, the blanket of darkness and sporadic lights, the smell of smoke and liquor, of skin and perfumes and bad flirting. The telling audio-visual sensory bluntness that accompanies the hundred plus decibels surrounding her, the 30 or so percent of alcohol in her.

 “ _Say you’ll never let me go…_ "

The relatively outdated electro-pop of the Chainsmokers puts her in an almost trance-like state, in the middle of the dance floor, right in front of the DJ. Few people would have placed Gaby Teller—of all the mech-eng _graduate students,_ really—to be one to enjoy… well, _partying._

(She doesn’t. It’s not _that_.)

But here she is, Saturday evening, after having just finished a three-hour, half-the-sem’s-grade-worth test earlier in the day, unhappy with her performance. (She _has_ been pretty distracted this first semester.) Swaying side to side, sweaty and completely engrossed in the moment, a glass of some nearly-empty fruity concoction in one hand, eyes closed and indulgent, almost happy.

(As close to a definition of “happy” that she has ever had the pleasure of encountering.)

Quick to evade many a young freshman looking to be part of her evening, she doesn’t need anyone. She came here alone, and she’ll damn well finish the night alone, _thanks very much._

(Because when you get too used to having no one but yourself, loneliness tends to sit in with your subconscious habits, tends to become an instinct more than a state, tends to take root like an inevitable future that no PhD can remedy.)

Five fruity drinks in and sixty minutes later, she is aware that it is high time to slow down the intake. She does not, however, slow down the intake. And while she vaguely registers some of her classmates— _Veronica_ _? Ria? She forgets the girly names—_ as she goes for another drink (and another, and another), she has never been keen on being _pleasant_ ; they receive waves of non-committal acknowledgement, but that’s just about it.

Another hour later, she swings by the bar to ask her purse from the bartender because:

“I’m calling it a night,” she squints at his name tag, “Ben. Please hand me my purse.” She is aware that she might be more than slurring her words here, but the night has been "good" to her senses, and it’s not her first time in this joint. She smiles at Ben, who wears an expression dubious of her ability to go home. She rolls her eyes.

“I’m fiiiiine.” Her German accent drawls with the numbness that she has been chasing all evening.

“Doesn’t seem like it—"

“ _Give. Me. My. Purse_ ,” she now says, levelling a glare at the bartender trying to do his job. Ben, of course, obliges. For a small woman, Gaby has a way of getting her way.

The tight crowd keeps her upright, but she sways more than walks towards the exit in any case, elbowing more than a few nuances. 

As soon as she gets outside, she stands a few seconds under the lamplight, eyes closed, savouring the bluntness and haze. Lighting herself a cigarette, she walks back to campus, her steps a little less than straight. There’s a hazy, half-formed thought behind her consciousness. Of broad shoulders and blonde hair, that crease in his eyebrows when he’s being a big baby, the way he always forgets his grammatical articles, the heavy accent that weighs—no, _anchors—_ all of his syllables in quiet determination...

Gaby chuckles to herself, lost in thought and almost tripping on her heels. She takes them off, then, and dangles them on her fingers, her feet landing on the cold concrete sidewalk of New York in autumn, the U.N.C.L.E. campus almost three blocks away.

_Illya Kuryakin..._

She frowns, sways and nearly topples over, grabbing purchase on a nearby streetlamp. She earns the concerned looks of a few passersby, not that she registers any of them. She hears music, an old tune, drifting from one of the apartments, probably. All this information, disjointed, from her different senses...

_Don’t ya feel like crying (Cry to me)..._

Even as she starts to sway to the 60s, a thin tendril of misgiving wiggles its way into her hazy mind; a defensiveness of sorts. 

Gaby has no illusions about her herself. She is beautiful, smart, sassy, but most of all: _independent_. Perhaps more out of necessity than anything else, but. Whatever. Who is Illya, anyway? She doesn’t need him. She really doesn’t. She needs none of this poo-poo sentimentality, no sir. 

(Because, to Gaby, independence and loneliness are the same word, spelled differently.)

She spins under lamplight, under cloudy skies and the cool blue of a little past midnight, determined to be uncaring, determined to be _happy_ in her uncaring-ness, until her alcohol intake catches up to her. Dizzy and spent, she sits down by the sidewalk, _five minutes, just five minutes._ She closes her eyes...

 

.:.

All in all, Napoleon Solo had been having a moderately great day. _Super_ , really.

The morning is going by fairly, hardly any incidents needing his immediate attention. Of course, there had been Illya's occasional texts about his dorm situation and the German roommate. Really, he didn’t understand what irked him so much; he didn’t seem quite so peeved about it when the dame herself had been around. Still so, a part of him considers them both somewhat of a… non-asset. (A term he uses in lieu of _friend_ or  _acquaintance._ ) He likes that she’s spunky and sassy; and he likes—no, _like_ is not the term, more _respects—_ that the hulking rage of a man that is Illya had enough control to break _only unnecessary things,_ like gym padlocks or freshmen noses.

(Well, _so far_.)

A relatively small part of Solo wished he hadn't actually risked the two graduate students, but the much larger part of him was brimming with self-acknowledged pride. One would think it were a bit of overkill, but Napoleon Solo has been nothing but consistent: go big or go home.

So he’s been having a fine Sunday, all things considered; somewhere in his long  _Remarkably Exceptional Shit Only I Could Pull Off_ list, forging marriage certificates on the fly had been pretty close to the top. Looking back, what he did was crazy sketchy and could probably land him in prison (this is an understatement), but what’s his last year here without a little challenge?

And it’s been half a term already, anyway. All in all, things are going fine.

That is, until he happens to run into a clearly upset Illya. Whom he had not seen—taken great pains _not_ to see—since that trip to the Dean’s office. Walking down the hallway of the main building, their eyes meet from quite far away for a split second and unfortunately, Solo is  _not_ able to do a 180 fast enough. Illya crosses the hall in a sprint, and it takes all of Solo’s goddamned self-control to not burst out running away from the 6’4 blonde brickhouse chasing him.

“Ah, was wondering when I’d run into you,” Solo says, by way of greeting the man who has quite literally blocked his path.

“Is that truly?” Illya cocks his head. “Here I had thought you were avoiding me, Solo. Why are you escaping?"

“I wasn’t escaping, I was… _brisk walking_."

“Have you seen my wife?” Illya says just then.

 

.:.

_Wife?_ That’s not right.

At least, not _entirely,_ Illya thinks. Of the way he had hurriedly constructed his question.

“Well, last I checked, she’s certainly not at _my_ place if that’s what you’re asking—"

“This is not funny. I am serious. I cannot find Gaby."

“Peril, I’m not sure what you expect me to do about—”

“ _Listen here you, you—!”_ Illya’s blood is positively boiling, he wishes he could come up with an insult, tries to keep his rage in check, finds his hands gripping the other man’s collar, while Solo looks at him with what could pass for unaffected sympathy, what with the grand unfeeling asshole that he is. Illya takes deep breaths. _One, two. One, two._

After reluctantly taking enough seconds to stabilise himself, Illya explains to Solo in a swooping breath how Gaby always goes out on Saturday evenings, how she usually goes alone, and which club it is outside the campus perimeters. He details further her habit, of arriving around fifteen minutes before ten, of leaving just about right after midnight, of always being tipsy but never fully drunken at the end of the night, of walking back to her dorms, heels in hand and smoke between fingers…

And how Gaby had not gone home last night, and how she cannot be reached via phone, is nowhere to be found.

“That is… very specific information you've got there, Peril.” Solo comments, after Illya's condensed review of the situation. If Illya reads a trace of _Why the hell would you even know_ _that?_ from his tone, he brushes it aside.

(Why, indeed? He could ask himself the same question, if he had the self-awareness levels beyond that of a spoon's.)

“I am fake husband,” Illya replies anyway, mildly affronted at the unspoken accusation. “Of course I would know where my wife would be. It is my duty."

“And I’m a fake lawyer, but you don’t see me memorising the New York Statute of Limitations,” Solo mutters. (Which is a complete and utter lie; he knows it all by heart, of course.)

 

.:.

As it turns out, Illya catching (read: _running after_ ) Solo that Sunday morning had been quite fortunate. Solo _did_ have connections around the campus, and at Illya’s behest (read: _death threats_ ), he is able to pull a few threads. They trace her whereabouts to the nearby apartment of one of her classmates.

“I found her slumped over by the sidewalk,” the classmate explains. The two men enter her room where she gestures towards a most definitely unconscious Gabriella Teller _,_ lying on the couch, mouth open in what Illya hopes to be a deep enough slumber to last the next two pedestrian blocks. “I didn’t know if anyone was coming after her and her phone was dead. I had a friend help me carry her up here,” she supplied.

Illya thanks the girl—whose name he is sure must mean something bright and shining, in English, but he is too overcome with relief to run it through the thesaurus in his head—and then proceeds to pick his wife up from the couch, very gently.

“Hey, don’t, you can’t—!"

“It’s alright, Rey. They’re married,” Solo interjects. At which the girl crosses her arms and demands proof, and no, she doesn’t trust Solo one bit, muttering something about it running in the family. Solo feigns hurt, right before ratting off an abridged version of the couple’s situation, sans the fake marriage licence. Just enough time for Illya to position Gaby’s lithe body in such a way that he could sustain carrying her for the thousand or so steps back to their dorm room.

“Alright, if you say so,” Rey says, still hesitant, after Solo’s explanation. “I’ll take your word for it, but I’ll ask Gaby next time I see her."

“Duly noted. Do say hi to my cousin for me. I’d do it myself, but I have a feeling it wouldn’t have quite the same effect coming from you,” Solo says, by way of exit, and with a wink too. Rey merely squints dagger eyes, humouring him with a middle finger and the ghost of an annoyed smile.

 

.:.

“Why don’t we just wake her up?"

“ _Shhh!"_

Waking her up is an absolute  _non-option,_ because as Illya explains: “We wake her, she will be cranky. You will not like Gaby when she is cranky."

It’s almost noon when Illya and Solo find themselves walking back to campus, with a very unconscious Gaby cradled in Illya’s arms. It would be weird, yes, had they been at any other university in the country. As it is, they are at U.N.C.L.E.

Solo has seen far stranger things in his time. 

Unsatisfying as Illya’s answer is, Solo accepts the warning with a little more curiosity than irritation. If it had been any other graduate student faux couple under his RA care, he would have already checked out the moment he’d fulfilled his end of the bargain; Solo is many things, but a bleeding heart he is not.

But somehow, for some inexplicable reason, he stays. Walks beside these two idiots back to their dorm. He allows a passive silence between him and the Russian for a good block, before starting conversation again:

“Red, If you would permit, may I ask you something?"

Illya doesn’t respond, because that’s just the sort of man he is.

“It's a non-hostile question, help me out here: How is it that Russia’s most brilliant nuclear theorist, one of its finest mathematicians, not to mention one of its most promising, up-and-coming chess grandmasters, found his way into New York, studying at a university that God himself has probably never heard of?” He polishes this long question with a shake of his head, disbelieving even as he observes Illya. Who, it is to note, falters the tiniest hint at the query.

“It is a long story,” the other man grunts.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have a few beers back at my room now, isn’t it?"

Just then, the very knocked-out Gaby stirs in her slumber, face turning toward Illya, brow furrowing slightly with a gentle, sleeping mumble. Solo observes, but does not comment on, the way the larger man seems to hold his breath, slow down, give pause. He similarly does not comment on the composure that inhabits Illya, nor does he acknowledge the almost gliding quality that the other man's steps have suddenly taken. The carefulness… or perhaps, the _care?—_ is not something that escapes a man like Solo.

He is seized with a small realisation. He almost doesn't reign in a smile fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so idk if you've noticed but i love reylo. im sorry but also im kinda not sorry... #savebensolo2k19


End file.
